Page 35 of She’s a Doll

Nicola sucked at her bottom lip as she worked, wincing and cursing whenever glue dripped onto her fingers, but not stopping.

Slowly, bit by bit, pieces of me reformed. A leg, an arm, the top half of my head.

“Can I touch you?” Nicola asked when it became obvious she couldn’t just keep working on the other bits. “Is that OK?”

Yeah. Sure.

“And pump hot glue onto you? That’s OK too, right?”

Yes.

“Including onto your face?”

What else are we doing here?

“Just checking.”

I was glad she’d checked, because when her hand pressed down over me, holding me still, a whole bunch of stuff started bubbling up inside me. Being trapped in a box, being pinned down by a sheet of tatty floral lace, being forced down onto the floor, throat collapsing, lungs burning . . .

I was shaking; I couldn’t help it. Not shivering like a human would, but jerking and juddering as my anger, fear, and uncertainty fought for control.

“Martin Freeman or Jude Law?” Nicola asked as she maneuvered a leg onto the broken stump of my thigh.

What?

“Your shitty Insta password. Watson11. That’s a Sherlock reference, right? Dr. Watson? I figured it had to be.”

She was trying to distract me. I let myself get distracted.

I liked the books. That’s why the number eleven, obviously.

“Ah. Yes. Obviously. Eleven. A number famous for . . . what exactly?”

It’s the number of times Dr. Watson ejaculates at Sherlock in the books.

Nicola fixed me with a flat look. “What.”

Dr. Watson ejaculates eleven times in the books. It’s an old-school way of saying “shouted.” It made me laugh, so . . .

“God you’re weird.”

I was fifteen when I made the account. Don’t judge me.

“It proves you’re real, at least. You have to be. There’s no way my brain would come up with something that cringe.”

That sounds like you’re judging m⁠— I jerked as I felt hot glue run down my thigh.

Had I wet myself when Kyle killed me? I couldn’t remember. I only remembered the world splintering, narrowing, my fingers clawing at his forearms, my vision spiraling over his shoulder toward the four dolls propped on Grandma’s shelf.

Sorry, I said to Nicola. I’ll hold still. I . . .

“We can do this later if you want?”

I considered that. I also considered hitting fast-forward. Objectively, that felt like the best move. The elite gamer strat. Dive into the time stream, zoom through all the grossness, and emerge on the other side, repaired and ready to go, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

But even if it was the smartest choice, I still recoiled from it. I didn’t have precise control over time, I rationalized. Days might slip by. Weeks. And when I emerged, I’d be exhausted. What would Nicola do then? Would she think she’d killed me? Would she drop me in the trash? Would she assume it was all a delusion after all and pick up that hammer?

I knew she wouldn’t. Deep down, I knew it was all just excuses. But the idea of losing control, of fading out, while someone else pinned me down . . .